


Red

by Eiryna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mentioned Irene Adler, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 00:31:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5687656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eiryna/pseuds/Eiryna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's first encounter with Irene Adler leaves more than one type of impression. A series of short interjections between established scenes in the first half of A Scandal in Belgravia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second fanfiction.

He could smell her perfume as soon as he picked up his coat. Or perhaps it was the soap she used. Yes, it was soap. _Sapone di mandorle. Farmacia di Santa Maria Novella._ Florence.

Good taste.

He thought about sending it out to be cleaned and then decided against it; to do so would be to admit he needed to be rid of her lingering scent, and admitting that would mean there was a reason to be rid of it.

His balance was not yet fully restored. He stumbled backwards to the bed and pulled the sheet over his face. 

When he woke the next morning, the first thing he noticed was a smudge of red on the pillow slip. He stumbled into the bathroom and stared, bleary-eyed, at his reflection. The faint print of her lips was still visible.

xxXxx

He was falling into the stereotypical behaviour patterns of ordinary people. Boring, ordinary people, with their boring and ordinary emotions.

Idiot.

He wanted to blame her, but that would be too simple.

He carried the camera phone in his left pocket, his own mobile in his right. When her texts came through he would force himself to wait a minute before taking it out of his pocket to look. He could feel John's eyes on him each time.

xxXXxx

Sherlock turned and walked away, cigarette still in hand, his footsteps sharply staccato on the spotless white floor of the morgue.

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft."

The outside air forced the thin blue steam of cigarette smoke back in his face as he pushed open the door. He paused, heard the soft tones of a mobile being dialled, and the click of the call answered on the first ring. Did they really think the death of a woman he barely knew would be enough? Apparently. He was not looking forward to rearranging everything they would rifle through to find what they were looking for and which would not be there.

He chose to walk for a while, pausing for a pack of cigarettes. He struck a match and lit up a second cigarette. His pace slowed. A third brought him to a full stop. He stared at the neon lights of a shop on the other side of the street.

_Red. Red like her lipstick. A smudge of red against his white pillow slip. Red like the wrapping of the package, bound in black cord. Red red. Molly Hooper._

_Red, like blood. Blood, a glossy red pearl welling up as a needle, fine as a hair, was withdrawn from his arm._

"Stop," he said aloud.


End file.
